A Simple Truth
by jenthetrulysly
Summary: They were real people, and life was not doled out in hour long increments on the television where at the end of the day, when Steve barked book em, Danno' that was the end of it, the end of another chapter in this ongoing tale.


_AN - given the plenty of people who are reading my stories and enjoying them, I will try to post longer stories where I can. Here is another stroll down memory lane, with one of the first stories I wrote for this fandom. Enjoy!_

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"Danno."

Danny snapped out of his carefully maintained mental blankness as his name rolled off the tongue of his superior, Steve McGarrett. He looked up from the cup of chamomile tea Jenny had handed him, to see Steve's concern from across the desk and he sighed.

"Yeah, Steve."

It was 5 o'clock and most people in Hawaii had gone home for the day, gone home to the promise of somebody waiting there for them with a warm hug and biscuits and dinner, to the din of their children as they laughed and were merry. To the sounds and sights of a family and a full house.

For Danny, his apartment was looking ever more lonely, a modern construct of beige and Japanese influences, for he had finally just taken down all the pictures of Jane and had stowed them, along with all of their letters to each other and whatever else he could find, in a document box, and stowed it down in the storage room of his apartment building.

If any of his friends had swung by his apartment, they would have noticed the distinct lack of any personal artifacts, of any photographs or letters or even wear and tear in the furniture. Any sign that this apartment had been lived in. A thick layer of dust probably covered everything by now, and the carpet probably hadn't seen other footsteps on it other than Danny's in _years_.

"Take a load off. Take the next few days off," Steve spoke carefully, his blue eyes trained on Danny's, waiting for his response. A pen was clutched loosely in his right hand, halfway across the page of a report from their last case, the one before the People's Attack Group had gotten their hands on Danny.

He shivered, unable to help himself, as the ghost of their fingers on his skin resurfaced, and he was flung back into the terrible memories of shrouded darkness, of damp and mildew and the sounds of a cocked gun firing, then the finite thump of a body rolling on the floor, the sense of abject horror highlighted as he could not see beyond the blindfold, could hear and imagine everything happening in excruciating detail, and was powerless to stop it.

_Utterly powerless. _

"No, Steve," he looked up and tried to smile, but it was half-hearted, and he was sure that it ended up more like a grimace than anything. Steve's blue eyes were still trained on him, but they shone with compassion, and what he hoped was understanding. Steve could be incredibly hard to read sometimes. "I'd rather be here, working on the cases. Paperwork. Anything."

"You've just been through a horrendous ordeal, Danno, I think its in your best interest to take some time off," Steve said softly, as a lazy smile curled his lips, "I owe you 5 years worth of holiday time."

"Steve, I'm fine really!" Danny protested indignantly, putting the saucer of chamomile tea onto Steve's desk, ignoring the sloshing of the lukewarm amber liquid against his shaking fingers, "I can still do my job, I can still catch the bad guys, I can still do paperwork, I can still book 'em - nothing has really changed!"

"Easy, Danno, easy," Steve said, and made an aborted twitchy movement, as if he was about to reach out and grasp Danny's hand or shoulder or something, but thought better of it. "Why don't you come over to my place this evening, and we can have dinner together?"

There was a wordless _I don't think you should be alone tonight _hanging in the air between them, but Danny heard it all the same. It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, that he was fine, thank you and hightail it all the way back to his rather impersonal abode, but something in him didn't want to go back there, didn't want to have to get the pot on the stove, and cook a meal for one, then to sit in front of the television and pretend that he wasn't as lonely as he really was. Pretend that there were voices, flowing like freshly mulled wine, through the vast cavernous nature of the apartment.

He didn't want to think that he was lonely, but the cold hard fact was that he was, and that thought alone gave him quite a bit of hardship. Against his better judgment, he agreed.

"Sure Steve, want me to bring over anything?"

"No, we'll pick something up. What do you feel like?"

The clock had just ticked past seven by the time Danny had a carton of Chinese takeout in his hand, a fork sitting amongst the half-eaten rice and sweet and sour pork as he snuck glances over to where Steve was reclining in his chair, lifting a mouthful of egg noodles to his lips. They sat adjacent to each other, but with a sea of brown and tan upholstery between them, for Danny was sitting on the sofa.

At least the television was not on, and he was glad for it.

Silence weighed down heavily on all of them, and Danny had know Steve long enough to know that he was waiting for Danny to speak, to acknowledge that a part of him was still scared, was still horrified that he had let Metzger die and could do nothing about it despite the badge and the gun that sat like the dead weight of the metaphorical albatross around his neck, condemning him to kill or either be killed, a fate he had convinced himself that the had long accepted, when that bullet had lodged into Thad Vaughn. It was part of what he had accepted when he became a cop, and it was what he would have to go on with.

From the set of his shoulders that afternoon and the way Steve's fingers lingered over Danny's as he handed Danny back his gun, Danny was sure that Steve knew all of this, and was doing the best he could, as his boss, as his friend. Going beyond the call of duty to help Danny out with this mess, with the jumble of doubt and discontent and everything else under the surface; a plethora of issues.

It was already _too close_.

"Would you believe it, they've skimped out on the pineapple again," Danny mumbled to the room at large. A small part of him was grateful for the dinner company. Anything was better than the television.

"And here I was thinking, that Chin's uncle would not skimp on the goods," Steve said, before he put the white cardboard carton down and laid his chopsticks delicately on top.

The silence stretched on around them, as Steve reclined back on his chair and sipped at what looked like tea from his cup. Danny's Longboard was still untouched at this stage, the brown glass sweating in the humid warmth of the Hawaiian evening.

Just by being there, Steve had done more for Danny than he could have ever thought possible, for Steve spoke in a language that was strange and new and unfamiliar, but comforting, nonetheless. Danny had come to learn that the arch of an eyebrow could convey so much more than the smashing of cartilage against bone, a chair flung against the wall.

Steve invited him up here, into his home because he could clearly see that the thought of returning home to an empty apartment was more than Danny could bear at the moment. He had seen enough to realize that people who have just come out of a horrific ordeal alive and kicking yet indelibly scarred needed something to ground themselves on, otherwise the torrent of bad memories and nightmares would flood up and break the levies, spilling out onto conscious thought, until they could no longer fight the gnawing of trauma and succumb to it, much the same way that a surfer is pulled under the surface of the water when a wave breaks against the shore.

Steve arranged dinner for them because he was salient enough to realize that Danny didn't have someone who would do this for him. There was no one waiting at home with a smile on their face and brimming with tenderness and care, someone to soothe the rough edges and listen to him. There was no one to break the monotony of police work, to break through the invisible wall that Danny had erected around himself to detach himself from the horrors that came with the job description. It made him untouchable, distant, and only someone who could truly understand it; someone who faced the same horrors everyday and could still look at themselves in the mirror would understand him. Unfortunately, those types of people were very hard to find, bordering on impossible.

He sipped his beer in silence, deeply locked in his thoughts until he felt the gentle weight of Steve's warm hand on his shoulder and the weight of those intense blue eyes on him. Steve was standing over him, the length of his body blocking Danny from the light, such that he was half absconded in darkness. He turned his clear blue eyes up to Steve to find those eyes scrutinizing him, watching each flicker of movement, each heartbeat, waiting for him.

"It might help if you occasionally listen to what I say, Danno," Steve said softly. Steve's hand on his shoulder was unusual, but not unwelcome. It felt different to all of the touches that had normally graced his shoulders; it was softer than the rough slaps Kono or Ben had given him after a particularly harrowing case, but it was much stronger than the touch of Jane, or any of his previous girlfriends. It was a manifestation of Steve's concern for him, plain and visible for all to see. It was the second one today, and Steve couldn't seem to keep his hands off Danny, and up until now, Danny could feel the phantom memory of Steve's arm as he slung it around Danny's shoulders, yet maintaining a strictly professional distance between them, as they walked out of the darkness into the sunlight, which blinded Danny with warmth and fresh air.

When he was sitting on the back of the ambulance Steve was the one giving the EMTs endless grief over Danny's care, making sure they knew what they were doing, making sure that they were following protocol, even going so far as to order them to re-bandage Danny's wrist because the splint was wrapped badly causing him to wince with pain when he lifted it. All those these things, combined with all the soft touches, the fleeting brush of shoulders as they crossed each other in the wide-open spaces of the office made Danny wonder, what exactly was he to Steve?

"Sorry Steve, I've just got a bit of a headache," he brought a bandaged hand to rub at his temple, mimicking a pained expression.

The blue eyes narrowed, "do you need some Tylenol?"

"I'm fine Steve," Danny said quietly, and heaved a sigh.

"Do you need to lie down for a bit?" Steve suggested, moving backwards away from Danny to give him some space. He couldn't understand why, but he felt a bit more ill at ease with the distance of separation between them.

"I said I'm fine, really!" He hadn't meant for the last part to come out as a shout, but it somehow did, anyway. Here he was, feeling jittery and scared, and vulnerable, oh so vulnerable, and who was Steve to come in like this, come into his life with his fleeting touches here and there and the quirky smiles and the 'book 'em Danno' and the 'I hope you haven't given up on me-'

The truth was, he had never truly stopped believing in Steve, not after the whole Vashon business, nor any time after that. Just like how Steve never stopped believing in his capabilities as a police officer after the whole Thad incident, then the Ricky shooting incident. Not even when Chin and Ben were looking at him like he was crazy and had lost his mind where he was convinced there really had been a boat hidden in the damn bunker off the highway. Steve could be very stubborn when he wanted to be.

He couldn't help it, Steve was the closest thing to a superhero among mortal men, barring the lack of imperviousness to flesh wounds and bullets, but that was only to be expected.

Steve had done enough, had done more than Danny could have ever asked of him, but it was nowhere near enough. It could never be enough, and Danny was cognizant enough to recognize that Steve, despite his best intentions was just not possible of giving Danny what he wanted, what he needed.

What he craved.

"I'm sorry Steve," Danny breathed as he leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, tilting it and staring at the ceiling as if he had become fascinated by it, "I guess I'm just on edge, or something."

And it was unfair, and downright selfish of Danny to demand such a thing from him.

"It's alright, Danno," Steve said quietly. There was a period of silence before he continued, "do you need something stronger? I've got some whisky if you want it." Steve finally sat down on the opposite end of the sofa as far away from Danny as possible.

"No, I'm fine Steve. In fact, I think I'll call it a night," Danny made a show of standing up and stretching, wincing as the kinks in his muscles eased and there was the sharp crack of bone as he flexed his arms.

He bent to pick up the remnants of his half-eaten dinner and the Longboard to throw them in Steve's rubbish bin, before he turned around to look at Steve, who was staring at him with something akin to worry and anxiety, He had a look on his face which suggested that he actually wanted to say a lot of things, but didn't know how, and that was very surprising considering that Steve was the talkback expert.

"Good night Steve, I'll see you tomorrow then," Danny said, smiling at him as he walked over to the door and let himself out.

"See you tomorrow, Danno," Steve replied, not moving an inch from his position on his sofa, his weary blue eyes fixed on Danny.

Even with the full weight of the heavy wooden door between them, Danny could still feel Steve's deep blue gaze bearing down on him, trying to sink down into his very soul. He rested his forehead against the wooden grain of the door, feeling the ridges dig slightly into his forehead.

He heaved deep breaths into his lungs and tried to regain a modicum of self-control, because only Steve could do this to him, only Steve could put him in the line of fire and make him feel vulnerable and scared and get the adrenaline rushing, but at the same time, only he could make Danny feel less lonely, like he was doing something meaningful with his life, like he was part of something bigger and better and wonderfully dangerous and exciting, like every little boy's dream.

Except, this wasn't a dream. This was real, this was not a work of fiction and Danny was not a manufactured character in a television show. They were real people, and life was not doled out in hour long increments on the television where at the end of the day, when Steve barked 'book 'em, Danno' that was the end of it, the end of another chapter in this ongoing tale.

No, because if this was a fairy tale, if this was just a story, Steve's door would be opening right now and Danny would come face to face with Steve and then he really didn't know what would happen next, because his nerves were badly frayed and he was walking the line of nervous tension, anxiety pulled taut like a string about to snap. A string that could snap at any time.

But because this was reality, Steve's door remained closed, the heavy wood a symbol of the barrier between them that couldn't, wouldn't be crossed.

**PAU**


End file.
